<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>It’s Like Waking Up in Surgery (I Can’t Seem to See) by The_Secret_Life_Of_Tea</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23792905">It’s Like Waking Up in Surgery (I Can’t Seem to See)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Secret_Life_Of_Tea/pseuds/The_Secret_Life_Of_Tea'>The_Secret_Life_Of_Tea</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>MH [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Marble Hornets</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>ACAB, ADHD, Ableism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Autism, Canon Autistic Character, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Everybody Lives, Hurt/Comfort, Institutionalized Ableism, Multi, Neurodiversity, Non-graphic depiction of state-sanctioned violence, OCD, Psychosis, Queerplatonic Relationships, did</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 22:40:06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>968</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23792905</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Secret_Life_Of_Tea/pseuds/The_Secret_Life_Of_Tea</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Brian gets hurt.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jay Merrick/Brian Thomas/Timothy “Tim” Wright</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>MH [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1707394</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>37</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>It’s Like Waking Up in Surgery (I Can’t Seem to See)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princex_N/gifts">Princex_N</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Before anyone says anything, I’ve had traumatic experiences with cops as a mentally ill, autistic teen. So don’t go there.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Tim never trusted cops. </p><p>Their badges reflected in his eyes, their uniforms were far too polished. There was something rigid and artificial in the way they spoke, commanding fear. </p><p>As a teen in inpatient, when he’d been in Rosswood (getting strip-searched as a teenager fucked a person up in more ways than one could imagine, made you an unreliable narrator in your own life), there had been a security guy as well as a cop. The security guy didn’t mind when Tim asked for a smoke late at night; sometimes he’d even join him for a cigarette, the orderly making a martyr of herself when she made snide comments about how smoking kills. </p><p>(The first time, Tim had just kept quiet. The second time, he’d coughed a laugh and said, “Well, guess I’d better smoke more then.”)</p><p>(That had gotten him an increase on his meds as well as a stern warning about making light of his mental illness. Fuckin’ doctors, man.)</p><p>But where the security guy was all long-sleeved shirts and tired eyes, the cop working nights was not. He wore starched shirts and smart shoes and the gun strapped to his pistol made Tim’s lip curl. He’d so much as twitch and the cop would eye him warily, like he was a caged dog.</p><p>He supposed he was, back in those days.</p><p>Back to the point—in his years of being an autistic psychotic guy with DID... well, he’d met plenty of cops.</p><p>Brian, though? Not so much. Brian was like a non-native bird; he didn’t know not to trust the uniforms enough to take flight.</p><p>And seeing his boyfriend on the ground, howling in pain, a bullet in his leg—</p><p>Tim went to lunge at the cop, scared shitless, rage pulling Masky right to the front. Masky never spoke, couldn’t. But he didn’t need any words to beat the man’s face into a meaty crimson pulp. </p><p>Jay saved his life that day. Both him and Brian’s. His restraint, his careful show of fear and reverence—it kept them from both getting shot in the head.</p><p>“Sir, sir, he’s—he’s mentally ill,” Jay stuttered out. The hard-faced faced man turned to Jay. The only thing betraying his calm demeanor was his finger still stuck in the trigger’s housing. “Say again, boy?”</p><p>Masky stiffened up. How dare he call Jay, a grown man, a boy? He lurched toward the uniform again, the badge shining silver in his eye. He needed—</p><p>But no. Jay grabbed Masky’s hand, squeezing it. The pressure slowed him down, made him pause. Jay knew every way to calm Masky down, damn him.</p><p>“They both are. I’m their—their caregiver.” Masky tilted his head a bit, it realized why Jay hadn’t said they were boyfriends. What if the cop was homophobic? It’d be easy enough to fudge the records, say Brian had attacked him. There were only a few witnesses in the 7-11. </p><p>Brian had been mumbling to himself in a sort of sing-song slur of words. It wasn't disruptive, and Tim and Jay were used to it; it was Brian's way of communicating his distress. Tim supposed that to the unacquainted, it could be a bit unnerving, but that was no reason for the middle-aged white woman to call the fucking police. She had done it covertly enough that Tim had been blindsided, and though he has plenty of unresolved trauma around cops, he expected Brian to... </p><p>To what, stop being visibly mentally ill? Fuck.</p><p>Things had only escalated with the cop's arrival, Brian refusing to leave the 7-11 without his dinner. They were short on cash lately, and 7-11 beckoned with its cheapish cigarettes for Tim and cheaper food. Brian had made an unhappy keening wail, raising his fists to strike himself in the head--</p><p>And well. Here they were in the aftermath.</p><p>Brian let out another agonized scream, clutching at his knee, but Jay spoke over him. "We were just here to grab some food. He's psychotic." </p><p>The cop looks at Brian now with thinly-veiled disgust. “Get him back on his meds. I’ll call in an ambulance.” </p><p>And that’s it. No repercussions, no legal recourse. Soon Brian’s curled up on his cheap, shitty mattress, moaning softly. “Hurts,” he gasps. </p><p>“Tim, gimme another dose of his painkillers. And get me his night meds. Yours too,” Jay commands. Masky bristles at being called the wrong name, at being told what to do, at the implication that he even needs meds. But one look at Jay’s harried expression and he’s speed-walking to grab the requested bottles.</p><p>It’s not a night for non-compliance.</p><p>He dry-swallows his pills (Jay makes a face at him), but Brian is having trouble even sitting up to get his. So Masky bends down and holds the water to his lips as Jay coaxes the painkillers and Abilify down his throat. Brian always makes jokes about the name, but not tonight. Tonight he can just barely swallow, the rough scrape of the pills going down making him wince.</p><p>“There we go, Bri.” Jay soothes. “You’re doing great.” He glances up at Masky, seeming to realize finally that it’s his boyfriend’s alter fronting. He moves closer, but Masky skitters backwards. </p><p>“All right.” Jay holds up his hands, a ritual they have. Masky inspects his hands, nodding in grim satisfaction at their openness and lack of weapons. He also counts Jay’s fingers. ...Six, not five. </p><p>Fuck. He avoids Jay’s look. </p><p>“We gotta go to bed, Masky.” Jay’s tone brooks no argument. He softens up a bit. “Come here.”</p><p>He holds out his hands, and Masky comes over cautiously, taking Jay’s frail wrist in his calloused hand. He likes Jay’s coolness against his own palm’s heat. Clambering into bed gingerly, Masky closes his eyes. </p><p>(He tries not to hear Brian’s whimpering throughout the night.)</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>